


Memories and Echoes

by Johaerys



Series: This and This and This: Achilles & Patroclus [2]
Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Art, Digital Art, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Reincarnation, Underage Drinking, achilles and patroclus trying wine for the first time, and getting very giggly about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26577976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys
Summary: The sound of his laugh, rich and clear like a babbling brook. His hair under the bright midsummer sun. The amber light of a fire catching in the emerald depths of his eyes. His hand in mine. Moments of happiness and grief, of quiet contemplation, and moments when my heart beat so fast I thought it would burst. A thousand little moments, like fireflies in the night, crowding forward.I am made of memories.All of my entries for Patrochilles Week 2020, in one place!Day 1: Reincarnation!AUDay 2: ChildhoodDay 3: "He is half of my soul, as the poets say."Day 4: Mount PelionDay 5: TheraponDay 6: LyreDay 7: Hurt/ComfortDay 8: Fluff
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Series: This and This and This: Achilles & Patroclus [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934749
Comments: 51
Kudos: 217
Collections: Patrochilles Week 2020





	1. Once Upon A Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This work will be a collection of all my entries for Patrochilles Week 2020. I'll be updating the tags as I post.
> 
> For Day 1, reincarnated Achilles and Patroclus meet in Victorian London. I hope you enjoy! :)

The rain pattered softly against the roof of the carriage as the horses pulled it through the grand gates of Lord Angove’s estate. It was just an hour’s drive from London, away from the bustle of the city, yet to me it seemed like the entire city had somehow found itself there. The long carriageway was filled with coaches, horse hooves clopping on the now muddy ground. In the dusk that was falling, the lit up windows looked like stars, gates into another realm, perhaps. It appeared almost dreamy, the way the golden light of lamps and crystal chandeliers flickered and trembled, in sharp contrast to the darkening sky beyond. Elaborately dressed figures wove amongst each other like schools of fish, languidly drifting in warm, tropical waters.

“Let’s go,” my father said gruffly as soon as the carriage had stopped, snapping me out of my reverie.

The raindrops dampened the top of my head, the shoulders of my fine coat. It was amongst the finest I owned; my father had insisted I wear it, though it made me feel even more out of place than I already did. I followed him up the glossy marble steps, through the manor entrance, into the grand ballroom the footmen led us to. Luxurious and decadent it was, without a doubt, with high domed ceilings and elaborately carved columns, exotic plants and odd artifacts that graced the walls. Lord Angove’s trading ships went far and wide, and they often brought back animals that no one had ever seen before, spices that burnt your tongue if you tried them, wines that were said to steal one’s wits after a couple swigs. The entire room seemed to be an extravagant display of wealth. Father disliked Lord Angove, of course, as he did most people. Including myself.

“Stand straight,” he hissed at me. “Don’t slouch.”

I sighed. “Yes, Father.” I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin. It was a hot evening despite the rain, and the scent of wet earth that drifted through the open windows mingled with the smell of freshly poured wines, of fine perfumes, of food being cooked in the kitchens below. I slipped a finger below my collar and carefully loosened it, taking in a breath. I hadn’t wanted to come, but Father had insisted upon it; so, I had acquiesced. And now I was paying for it, with a head that was already heavy and sore, and an undershirt that was slowly, yet steadily, growing damper. 

I sipped on the sweet, red wine in my glass, wishing it was cool instead of uncomfortably lukewarm, when a wave of laughter drew my attention to the far end of the room, where a cluster of people gathered. Someone amongst them had just said a joke, I presumed, a rather hilarious one, judging by their reaction. That someone was standing in their midst, sipping on his wine, eyes glittering with mischief and satisfaction while the others howled. Young lords, the lot of them. Their clothes were fine and well made, much finer than mine. Frills and ruffles, silks and velvets, thread of gold and silver embroidery on their sleeves, their doublets, their expensive vests. Perfectly groomed hair, beards and moustaches on comely faces, yet they all looked coarse and dull compared to the man they were all so affectionately peering at. His garb was simple compared to theirs, his hair gathered in a tail at the nape of his neck, strands of spun gold that glittered in the light as he moved. The colour of his skin was rich and tan, like he’d been under the sun all day. He had this air about him, polite yet just a touch indifferent, like the doings of those around him did not interest him as much as they all assumed they did. Graceful, yet casually unaware of it; eyes as keen and sharp as a hunting cat’s. He smiled when someone whispered something in his ear. Peony coloured lips widened over teeth white as peeled almonds, and it seemed to me that the room grew a little brighter; he laughed, and his chin that lifted slightly exposed the soft, fawn-smooth skin of his throat. 

I caught myself staring, and quickly looked away, but curiosity nagged at me. Who was this man?

“The Prince,” my father said, having noticed me watching. 

I gaped at him. “The Prince? I thought he was studying in Rome.” So, that explained his tanned complexion, the golden, sun-kissed hair. Or did it?

“He’s recently returned,” Father continued. “The King’s health is failing, and he has been called for. He’s the most sought after bachelor right now. Dozens of families are clamouring for his hand. Soon, he’ll be the most powerful man in England.” He shot me a sharp and harshly appraising look. “This is what a son should be.”

His words drove through me like a lance. I pressed my lips firmly together, looked away from him. I hadn’t asked to be the way I was. I hadn’t asked to be small and weak and unremarkable in every way. I hadn’t even asked to be there, in that stifling, suffocating room, yet there I was. And no one was thanking me for it, or looking at me with glittering eyes, like they all seemed to look at _him._

The man in the distance said something again, and the others laughed and cheered, raising their glasses to him. Anger rose in me, slow and dull; and something else, something dark and sinister, like jealousy, that coated my tongue and made it taste bitter like bad almonds. Prince, I sneered, inside my head. 

As if he had heard my thought, his gaze snapped to mine. Green and vibrant, twin emeralds that sharpened and focused on me. I stood, frozen, a deer before bright lights. Everything around me faded in the background, the people, the music, the jests and the songs. It was like time had stopped, and there was nothing else in the world other than the two of us, gazing at each other from a great distance.

I jerked my eyes away, feeling heat travelling up my cheeks. It was not polite to stare. I shouldn’t have done it, yet something tugged at me, something that I couldn’t quite decipher. I turned back to him, but his attention had been diverted elsewhere once more. He seemed to have entirely forgotten I was there. 

  
  


Later, after the food had been served in the expansive hall and everyone had eaten and drank their fill, I had no desire to remain in the stuffy room. While my father talked with Lord Bramante about the King and the current state of affairs, I quietly slipped away, leaving the talk, music and commotion behind me. A few servants eyed me warily and bowed hastily when they passed me by in the otherwise empty corridors of the manor, and I nodded in acknowledgement, hoping that I hadn’t strayed too far, into areas of the house I was not meant to be. At that moment, though, it didn’t feel like I was meant to be anywhere. The day had dragged on, and I was weary, and I wanted nothing more than to return to my own house, in my own room, and lock myself away from that world that did not agree with me.

I had heard that Lord Angove was a lover of the arts, and that was no lie. I passed room after room whose walls were almost entirely covered by frescos and large paintings, depicting idyllic scenes or scenes of battle from famous legends and stories. I followed them curiously, standing before this one or the other, noticing their details, the soft or dynamic brushstrokes, the colours, the emotions. There was one in particular I wanted to see, one that was said the Lord had acquired at great expense, painted by an artist who was supposed to be a master of his craft and had been dead for at least a hundred years. It would be hidden in some of the inner rooms, I guessed, so I followed the trail, looking for it. When I finally found it, I realised I was not the only one that sought to admire a piece such as that. 

The Prince was standing before it. He was alone this time, without his loud entourage. He somehow seemed even more kingly without it. He looked serene, entirely absorbed; his silence and stately grace his only companions. I stood at the door, unsure whether I should intrude upon his quiet meditation or withdraw before he had noticed my presence. Before I’d managed to make up my mind, he turned to look at me with those keen, feline eyes of his. 

“Come,” he told me, and his voice carried that effortless command that seemed to come so naturally to him. I obeyed, though somewhat grudgingly. I disliked being told what to do, yet he was the Prince. The heels of my shoes clicked on the polished marble floor as I approached, coming to stand beside him. His gaze had drifted from me to the painting before him once more.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked. His voice was bright and clear like freshly melted snow, with a soft cadence to it that reminded me of the sighing of mountain winds, the trill of songbirds hidden in thick foliage, maple leaves stirring with the breeze. A stream flowing over polished rocks. Rose quartz crystals glittering in the morning light. Painted constellations on a domed cave roof. 

_Orion,_ I thought to myself, conjuring the shape of the stars in my mind. _The Pleiades._

I started at my own knowledge. I didn’t remember ever studying the names of constellations. I did not even know that place that sprung up in my memories, yet it felt like I did. Like I had been there, once. Perhaps in a dream.

I took a breath to clear my head and looked up at the large, magnificent painting, brushing the odd images away. The scene depicted was a large and messy one; a proud warrior was standing on his chariot, his golden armour glinting in the sun, his spear poised to be thrown while scores of horses and chariots ran behind him. Awe gripped me the more I stared at it. “It is,” I replied softly, as if scared to distract the man in the painting from his sacred mission.

“Are you familiar with the story of Achilles?”

“Of course,” I said. “Who isn’t?” My tutor had made me memorise the entire first book of the Iliad when I was little, had made me recite it to him word for word. I was never drawn to ancient myths and legends of battle- the ferocity and bloodlust felt odd and foreign to me- yet the legend of Achilles always held a place of wonder in my heart. A fearless warrior, the son of a goddess, a god himself- a human. A friend. A sworn and loyal companion. His devotion always at odds with his might, his arrogance, his hubris. How could I not know about his story? How could I not be drawn to it?

The Prince nodded, his hands folded at the base of his spine, his gaze still fixed on the painting. “Do you believe that he and Patroclus were lovers?” he asked, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to ask.

I choked in the act of swallowing, and my lungs spasmed in a fierce coughing fit. I wheezed and gasped through it, glancing wildly around me. If anyone had been there to hear- I did not even want to think about what they would have thought. Lovers? I shivered. Such statements, such words were unthinkable, unutterable, _unnatural._

I did not want to admit that the very same thought had troubled me for nights on end.

He was watching me calmly, his gaze steady, while I gaped at him, my eyes wide as saucers. 

“No,” I croaked, “of course not. They were friends, companions, not- not _that._ ” I blinked, and something like hope rose in me, swelling in my throat. “Weren’t they?”

He turned back to the painting. He stayed silent for a moment before he said, “Would you lay waste to an entire city for a friend?”

“If… if it was a good friend.” 

“Would you keep his dead body in your room for days?”

“I-”

“Would you ask to be buried with him, for his ashes to be mingled with yours after you died?” His eyes focused on mine, steady and relentless. “Those of your friend?”

_I would, if it were you._

The thought came to my mind suddenly, unbidden. It was one of my own thoughts, yet it did not feel like mine. It was as if there was someone else whispering at me; some hidden, forgotten part of me, struggling to break through. It shocked me to my very core, as much as it gripped and pulled me. At that moment, as we gazed at each other, I knew that, should he die, the world would lose something irreplaceable. Something beautiful and bright and true, and wasn’t that a crime to make all others pale in comparison? 

I tried to look away, tear my gaze from his but I was caught, pinned, unable to do anything else other than return his stare. His eyes were seas of forest green, and I was wading through them, breathless and eager to get somewhere, to find something. What, I did not know.

My mouth was dry when I tried to speak. "I… am not sure," I managed finally, after what felt like ages. "Perhaps."

He watched me in silence for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, softer than it had been. "It always makes me wonder," he said. "The depth of his devotion. The magnitude of his grief. His… love. Simply put. I do not understand it, yet it pulls at me. It begs to be understood. To be made sense of." The Prince's attention was on me entirely now, as if there was nothing and no one else in the world for him right then. He tilted his head to the side, studying me. "Have we met before? I swear you look familiar."

There was no haughtiness to his expression, no mock or ridicule. There was interest, and earnest curiosity, as if my answer would shift something significant inside him. 

"I don't believe so,” I replied, the words catching in my throat. “I'm sure I would remember." He was indeed familiar, I realised. I studied the contours of his face, sculptor perfect, the smooth skin that stretched over his brow. I followed the line of his jaw with my eyes, the tendons of his delicate throat. There was a grace in those features, soft like a woman's, but angular and precise at the same time. He looked like no one else I’d ever seen, yet I knew I’d seen him somewhere before. I knew, with a certainty that startled me, that I knew him. 

The sound of his laugh, rich and clear like a babbling brook. His hair under the bright midsummer sun. The amber light of a fire catching in the emerald depths of his eyes. His hand in mine. Moments of happiness and grief, of quiet contemplation, and moments when my heart beat so fast I thought it would burst. A thousand little moments, like fireflies in the night, crowding forward.

“Maybe in a dream,” I whispered, before I’d even realised I’d spoken. 

He considered my words carefully, holding my gaze, as if I’d said something of great wisdom. 

“Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “In a dream.”

The rain, soft like distant whispers, pattered gently against the window panes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated :)
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


	2. Together, Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my entry for the Childhood prompt! It is set a few months to a year before Achilles and Patroclus both leave for Mount Pelion.

The humid night air that drifted through the open window carried with it the scents of salt water and pine, of the waves that licked the sandy shore beyond Peleus' palace. The branches of the olive trees outside Achilles’ room rustled with the breeze as I lay on my back upon my pallet, listening to the crickets’ trill and the hoot of a distant night owl. It was quiet and repetitive, solemn in its constancy, and listening to it often lulled me into a light sleep. Yet that night my eyes were wide open and fixed on the ceiling above me, and no matter how intently I focused on the small owl’s cry, _Hypnos_ wouldn’t come for me. So I lay, and waited.

It felt like hours later that I irritably tossed the covers aside and stood up. Achilles’ pallet was on the other end of the room, close to the window. I padded to it silently. He was asleep, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting on his belly. His breaths came in quiet, even successions, expanding his narrow ribs, making his chest rise. Long eyelashes rested gently upon his cheeks, tracing his high cheekbones. There was a stillness to him when he slept, as if he was one with the night, his skin looking almost diaphanous in the moon’s silver glow. Often, when I awoke from troubled dreams and lay breathless atop my pallet, I would turn to look at him, and the sound of his easy breathing would soon return my heart to calmness. I didn’t know how long I stood there, watching him sleep, when his petal-soft eyelids fluttered open. He looked at me, a silent question in his gaze.

“I can’t sleep,” I whispered to him. 

“Why?”

“I’m hungry.”

His fair brow creased in confusion, and he promptly sat up. The soft cotton sheet slithered from his chest, coming to rest atop his lap. “Did you not have dinner?”

“I did.”

“And?”

I bit my lip. “Still hungry.”

He watched me for a moment, then his lips curled in his cat’s smile. He tossed the sheet aside, picked up his tunic and pulled it over his head. “Come,” he told me.

We opened the door of Achilles’ room and slithered out, silent as thieves. He walked ahead of me, head held high, shoulders square. He didn’t look as if he were sneaking anywhere, but his feet made no sound as they struck the ground. I followed behind him, checking around us for any sign of movement. Nothing stirred. This time of night, everyone was in their beds, save for the guards on duty. I blushed and looked away when we passed by a pair, but Achilles didn’t even spare them a glance. They stepped aside, bowing respectfully as we walked by them, but I knew they would comment on it later on, after we were gone. I rubbed the back of my neck uneasily. I still wasn’t used to the privileges of a prince’s close companion, and the ease with which Achilles moved about was foreign to me. It was his home, after all, and he had a right to go wherever he pleased. By extension, I could, too, yet I never did. Unless I was with him. Peleus’ palace was friendly, almost as comfortable as a home could be, yet it wasn’t _my_ home. I never felt particularly at ease anywhere, or with anyone. 

Only when I was with Achilles, I reflected as I silently followed.

The kitchens were still hot from the day’s cooking, a thick smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat lingering in the air. My mouth watered; I lifted the covering of a large ceramic bowl and plucked a small piece of cooked lamb, still crisp and warm and smelling faintly of rosemary. A piece of bread and some goat’s cheese went well with it. I chewed hungrily, watching Achilles as he drifted through the empty room, ducking under the low hanging trails of sundried tomatoes and garlic pods that hang from pegs on the ceiling. He stopped before a shelf of sealed amphorae, small and round, with slender necks. I followed him after I’d swallowed my food, coming to stand beside him. 

“What are these?” I asked him. He pointed at the inscription at the bottom of the amphorae: _oinos_ , it read. Wine.

“These are from Lesbos,” he said. “Father said their wine is very good.” He reached out, plucking one of the bottles from the shelf and working the cork out. He sniffed it, and edged back. “Oh. It’s strong.”

“Is it?” I drifted closer still, sticking my nose over the opening. The wine was strong and fragrant, smelling faintly of grapes and honeysuckle. It made my eyes water. “It is. It really is.”

“I want to try it.”

I gaped at him. “What? Like this?” To drink wine straight from the bottle was unthinkable. Such practices were reserved only for the god Dionysus and his court, that could drink undiluted wine without ever getting drunk. For everyone else, wine should always be _kekrammenos;_ diluted with generous amounts of water. 

Achilles stared at me for a moment, then at the amphora in his hands. He slowly brought it up and tipped it over his lips, taking a small sip. I watched him, holding my breath. As soon as the wine touched his open mouth, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed, he brought the jug back down, blinking. 

“Well? How is it?” I asked anxiously.

His face twisted in a grimace, wrinkles forming on his nose. “Terrible,” he croaked, coughing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then offered me the bottle. “Try it.”

I drank. Then he drank again. Then it was my turn once more. After three sips, I could feel my skin tingling. After four, my teeth felt like dry sticks, jutting out of my softened gums. Achilles took another sip, grimacing again, and this time I couldn’t control my laughter.

“Your cheeks are red,” I told him, giggling behind my hand. “They’re so red.”

“So are yours!” He set the amphora next to him on the floor. “And your ears, too. You look like a pomegranate.”

“I do not!”

“Or an apple. Or a strawberry.” He grinned, wide and jubilant, his eyes shining in the half dark. “You’re a strawberry. You are.”

I laughed and laughed until I was breathless, until there was sweat gathering at the back of my neck. Achilles laughed with me, huffed and muffled behind his palm. His smile was so wide, it was crinkling the corners of his eyes. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him so exuberant. Both our legs were slightly wobbly by the time we stood up, and padded, as silently as we could amidst sobs of muffled laughter, back to our room.

Achilles flopped on his bed, and I lay next to him. I was breathless, and my head was spinning. Achilles was gazing out of the open window. The stars were bright above us, and the moon, thinner than a nail, cast its feeble glow on us. He looked quiet and peaceful, only an idea of a flush remaining on his cheeks, his lips. His hair was spread on the pillow like a halo of silver and gold around his head, and smelt faintly of almonds. 

I sighed and rested my head atop my folded arms. “Achilles?”

“Yes?” 

“I like your hair.”

Achilles let out a long exhale through his nose and closed his eyes. “And I like yours.”

“You do?”

“Yes. It never-” he paused, his jaw cracking on a yawn, “-it never stays where it’s supposed to.”

I grinned. He was right. The fact that he’d noticed that about me filled me with joy and an odd sense of pride. We stayed like this for a long while, laying side by side. I didn’t dare move, for if I did, I feared Achilles would ask me to go back to my own pallet. I longed to stay by his side. For as long as I could.

“Achilles?” 

His response was a sleep-laced hum. “Hm?”

“I want us to be friends,” I whispered, so quietly that I barely heard myself say it.

“We are friends.”

“Yes, but-” I bit my bottom lip. “I would like us to be together. Always.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me. His expression was serious, not a flicker of mischief lingering in his gaze. “Then we’ll be together,” he said solemnly.

My heart fluttered in my chest, a newborn bird struggling to take flight. “Always?”

“Always.” 

My lips widened in a smile before I could stop them, and he returned it with one of his own. With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes again, his profile illuminated by starlight when he rested the side of his head atop his pillow. “Goodnight, Patroclus.”

I watched him until sleep weighed down my own eyelids, like fabric carrying too much water. Right before Hypnos carried me away into slumber, I slithered just a hair closer to him, reaching out to wrap my pinky finger around his. It tightened reflexively about my own, and he let out a sleepy sigh. 

“Goodnight, Achilles,” I breathed into the night, closing my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hypnos: the ancient greek deity of sleep.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated, I'd love to hear your thoughts! <3


	3. Half of My Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Day 3, I come to you with art offerings instead of a one shot! I'm still very much a beginner, but I hope I did the boys justice :)
> 
> More writing tomorrow! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!
> 
> For the link to the Tumblr post for this piece, click [here!](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/post/630005519637168128/he-is-half-of-my-soul-as-the-poets-say-for)


	4. Fireflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My entry for Day 4: Mount Pelion! This takes place perhaps a year to 6 months before the boys leave for Phthia, so they're approximately 15 years old.

“Patroclus.”

Achilles’ voice came as if from far away. It was a soft whisper, the breeze that rustled through the leaves in spring. I hummed sleepily, shifting to lie on my side.

“Patroclus. Wake up.”

My eyes fluttered open, heavy and bleary. I blinked when I saw Achilles’ face, only a breath away from my own. He was staring at me intently, his features obscured by shadows in the half light. 

“What happened?” I croaked, careful not to raise my voice. The night was still dark, and Chiron would be sleeping nearby.

Achilles sat up on the pallet. “It is time.” Without another word, he tossed the covers away and slithered out of bed, padding to the far end of the cave where our clothes and furs lay. He chose a soft buckskin one for himself, then threw another at me. “Come,” he whispered, and, quiet as a cat, slithered out of the cave.

I stretched and threw the pelt on me with a yawn, then followed him, still tired and sleepy. The cold air embraced me as soon as I stepped out, making my skin prickle. The moon hung high up in the sky, round and full like a silver coin. The stars were bright that night, a million silver pins on a canopy of black silk, keeping it in place above us. I gazed at it for a while, in awe, before Achilles took my hand in his. 

“Come, Patroclus,” he said, more insistently this time, and I followed him along the narrow, twisting path that led up to the mountain. I knew he had been waiting for this night for weeks, and I’d been looking forward to it, too, however tempting it seemed at the time to turn back to the cave and crawl under the covers. 

We wove our way slowly through the overgrowth. I stayed as close to Achilles as I could, for his vision was much keener than my own in the dark. He could always see the owls that hid amongst the branches, and the foxes that slithered through the tall grass, and once he’d killed a scorpion right before I’d stepped on it. I was much less agile and nimble than he was. Where he picked his way along the path with speed and precision, I kept stumbling over fallen tree trunks and upturned rocks, and more than once did I almost fall flat on my face when my foot got stuck in a tangle of raised roots. It wasn’t long before I was wobbling along behind him up the steep path, sweating but also shivering underneath my pelt at the same time. 

Achilles stopped to let me take a breath. The wind that blew drifted through his hair, bringing a golden lock of hair, silver in the moonlight, before his face. He pushed it back behind his ear. “Not too far, now. We’ll reach the peak soon.”

I nodded, but was too tired to utter a word. Achilles turned around, but didn’t take a step forward. His back stood before me, unmoving. “Hop on,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Hop on my back.” He shot me a smirk over his shoulder. “I’ll carry you to the top.”

I gaped at him for a moment, but said nothing in reply. Slowly, my heart beating in my throat, I clambered onto his back, wrapping my legs around his narrow waist while I held on to his shoulders. His hair was only a breath away from my nose. It smelt of almonds and earth, of clean sweat, of the sweet, musky scent of him. I swallowed uneasily, trying to take my mind off the gentle rocking of his movements as he started up the path again. The warmth of our proximity sent shivers up my spine, but I forcefully pushed them down, focusing on the road ahead. 

“Think we’ll be able to see them from up there?” I asked him quietly, in an effort to distract myself. 

He nodded, hopping over a cluster of rocks. He didn’t seem to move any less gracefully or agilely with me on his back. “I know we will. We’ve seen the town from the mountain peak before.”

“We’ve seen it during the day,” I retorted. “Is it visible at night?”

Achilles didn’t reply as he continued, swerving past tree trunks, following the folds of the road. Soon, we were close to the spot that we often visited when the days were clear, a small glade that overlooked the Pagasetic gulf and the town of Pagasae that lay far below. 

“There!” The pitch of his voice was higher than normal, and his back straightened underneath me. “Do you see?”

I followed his gaze, peering past the hills that lay beyond us, towards the dark, glittering waters in the far distance. And there, in a small pocket in the darkness, I saw the bobbing yellow lights of hundreds, perhaps thousands of fires and lamps and lanterns. They were moving slowly, weaving amongst each other, like fireflies in the night.

“Gods,” I whispered under my breath, leaning my head forward over Achilles’ shoulder. He grinned sideways at me.

“Remember Peloria, back in Phthia?” he asked me, a hint of wistfulness in his tone.

I nodded, returning his smile. Peloria was one of mine and Achilles’ favourite festivals. In Phthia, great fires were lit, and grand feasts were organised in every household, in honour of Zeus. There were countless games and sacrifices during the day, and banquets with music, food and wine at night. They were rich and plentiful, and even strangers and servants were welcome to them. Pagasae didn’t seem to be honouring the day any less than Phthia, judging by the multitude of lights in every house. From that far away, it seemed as if it were a different world, separate to ours. This, perhaps, was how the gods on Mount Olympus would look upon the doings of the people far below them, I idly reflected. Yet we were not gods. We were simply quiet spectators, two people standing on the outside, looking in. 

My fingers tightened imperceptibly about Achilles’ shoulders. “Do you ever miss the palace?” I asked quietly.

He considered my question carefully. That was one of the things I loved about him. Even if we’d asked each other the same questions time and time again, he would still think about his answer, as if it were the first time. “Sometimes,” he admitted after a short while. “I miss some things. I miss my father. I miss the beach. I miss the small olive grove we used to go to in the afternoons, when everyone was sleeping. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” I said softly, and my heart tightened just a little when I remembered how small we’d once been. Time was moving fast, and I rarely ever realised it.

“But other than that,” Achilles continued, his voice gentle, a half whisper that mingled with the sighing of the mountain wind, “I don’t miss anything else. I have everything I need right here.” He gazed out again, towards the town. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

In the darkness of the night, the tentative glow of the stars above us and the trembling flames of the fires below reflected in his eyes, tiny pinpricks of light that swam in the black of his pupils. An entire world, caught in the splendour of his gaze, held safely between his fair eyelashes. 

“It is,” I whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peloria (Πελώρια): A Thessalian festival resembling the Roman Saturnalia. During the festival, sacrifices were offered to Zeus Pelorius; banquets open even to strangers were given, and slaves enjoyed the utmost freedom, sometimes being waited upon by their masters.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated, I love hearing from you! :)


	5. Stolen Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My entry for Day 5: Therapon! This takes place right after the boys return to Phthia from Mount Pelion :)
> 
> Therapon (θεράπων): loyal companion, comrade, attendant

“Patroclus.”

The sound of Achilles’ voice dragged my attention away from my task, the mortar and pestle coming to stillness in my hands. A serving girl had burnt her hand in the cooking fire, and I was helping make a poultice for the wound. Chiron had shown me how to care for burns like this one; milk and honey, water steeped with rose petals, beaten egg whites. I had just finished mixing the remedy when Achilles arrived. 

He was dressed in a fine burgundy tunic, clasped at the waist with golden buckles. There was a golden amulet hanging by his neck, a fine golden circlet resting on his head. His hair fell softly around his face, locks of spun gold drifting with the light breeze. The leaves of the olive tree above us rustled, glistening silver in the light.

His expression was serious and aloof, kingly. It was usually so, when others were around, but ever since we’d returned to the palace he seemed to be holding his shoulders a little bit more square, his chin just a touch higher than usual. Thus he regarded me now, crouched as I was beside the injured serving girl.

I handed the girl the ointment and stood up. “Achilles.”

“You are needed,” he announced, then spun on his heels and walked back towards the palace. I followed him, curious. The gravel crunched under the soles of my leather sandals as I made my way through the small inner courtyard, then my heels touched smooth, polished marble floors. Achilles was just ahead of me, his back straight, his shoulders swinging only slightly as he walked. There was an elegance to the way he moved, a beauty, a kind of precision. Every movement had its purpose. Today, even more so. 

“Where are we going?” I asked him quietly, careful to lower my voice so it didn’t reverberate through the corridors. 

“You’ll see,” was Achilles’ enigmatic reply. 

I followed for a while in silence. Then, before I could realise what had happened, Achilles swung an inconspicuous door open, grabbed my hand and pulled me inside. 

I gasped when I was pressed against a wall. Achilles’ lips were soft and plush, sweet like honey when they met my own in the near darkness of a storage room I didn’t even know existed. All other thoughts fled my mind as I threaded my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to me. I sighed, melting like wax over a candle flame when his arms wrapped around me, when his tongue gently coaxed my mouth open, when his teeth closed over my bottom lip. I kissed him eagerly, drawing breath from his lungs, letting his scent and the feel of him flood every fiber of my being.

Achilles pulled back to look at me, long fingers tracing the side of my face. Light trickled through the gap underneath the door, illuminating the sharpness of his features, catching in his golden hair, in the swirls of the circlet he wore. His eyes were dark, darker than usual, his lips flushed and glistening. 

I took a breath to clear my head as my palm smoothed down the curve of his neck. “What is this place?” I asked quietly, my voice just a touch hoarse. The corners of Achilles’ lips curled in his cat-like smile.

“I found it on my way to the meeting with my father’s advisors this morning. I don’t think anyone uses it anymore. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” His fingers tightened about my waist. “Or you.”

I shivered, letting myself be drawn to him. We kissed and kissed, our lips that glided gently against each other’s and our breaths that mingled the only sounds disturbing the quiet. “I probably shouldn’t be here,” I whispered against his mouth. I wondered hazily if anyone had seen us slipping away as I struggled to bring some sense back to my mind, however impossible that seemed right then.

“You are my _therapon_.” Achilles looked at me seriously. “You are supposed to be wherever I am.”

I quirked a brow at him. “You’re not supposed to be here either.”

His serious expression melted away when he flashed me a wry grin. “I know.” He leaned forward and kissed me again, until I was breathless. “We should come again tomorrow.”

My burst of laughter was muffled against his lips. I loved it when he got like this, eyes glittering with mischief, cheeks flushed with boyish enthusiasm. I brushed my nose over his, grinning. “How can I refuse, when my sacred oath compels me?”

Achilles pulled me flush against him, his throaty chuckle vibrating through my chest where we touched. “I should invoke that oath more often, then,” he whispered, then caught my lips in a kiss once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! :)


	6. Lyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more drawing for Day 6: Lyre! I hope you like :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the Tumblr post for this drawing [here](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/post/630339648614449152/later-achilles-would-play-the-lyre-as-chiron-and)!
> 
> Thanks for stopping by! More writing to come soon :)


	7. Safe, With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Day 7: Hurt/Comfort!

“It’s not working.”

The words reached me through a cloud, slowly drifting with the wind. It was a faint sound, as if my ears had been stuffed with cotton. It was a voice I knew well, one that I cherished above all others. I looked for its source, but my eyelids were heavy and stiff, my lashes dry and gritty. I couldn’t blink them open to see, no matter how hard I tried. Trapped in foggy darkness as I was, all I could do was lie down, and listen.

“It is not working,” the beloved voice said again, more decisively this time. I thought I could detect worry and weariness at its edges. The tightness in it startled me. I held my breath, struggling to stay awake despite the darkness that tugged at me. “The poultice you applied. It’s not doing anything. The fever is still too high.”

“Patience is needed,” another voice said, a deeper, calmer one. “The poultice will work, in time.”

“You said that last night, Chiron. He’s not getting any better.” There was command in his tone now, the creeping fingers of despair. He was upset, I realised, frustrated, barely reining it in. “There must be something else you can do.”

“He needs rest.” The shifting of a large body, hooves clopping as they touched the ground. “So do you, Achilles.”

_ Achilles. _ My mouth tried to form the syllables, my throat struggled to push air through my throat, yet no sound came.  _ Achilles, _ I could only call out in my mind.  _ Achilles.  _

And then, I was falling.

Darkness enveloped me. I shifted and turned, but emptiness stretched all around me. I was scared. I did not want to be there. There was a nagging fear in me, that somebody, something was after me. Something I couldn’t see. Something I couldn’t touch, or detect, but knew was there. Like a shadow, following me wherever I went. 

I flinched at the sound of dice rattling, tumbling on hard ground. I had learned to hate that sound, and the sight of the black pips on their bleached white surface even more. I took a step back. The sound of my footsteps echoed in the empty space, but someone else’s, too. Someone that moved at the same time, at the same pace as me. My shadow, taking form.

I turned around abruptly, and the boy’s countenance flashed before my eyes; the boy whose life I’d taken. He was pale, drawn, haggard. He stared at me with bloodshot eyes, and all I could see was him falling before me, the back of his head cracking against stone, like an egg.  _ He has followed me here, too, _ I thought in despair, though I knew not where ‘here’ was. I only knew that this was supposed to be a sacred place, a place of safety, where no ghosts should tread.

_ Go back, _ I wanted to tell him.  _ Go back where you came from. Leave me alone.  _ Yet I knew that the living should never speak to the dead. If they did, they’d be pulled down with them to the depths of the underworld, in the cold caverns of Hades’ realm. 

The boy opened his mouth. 

Dread rose in me, curled over me in a wave, gripped me. Pulled me under. I turned away, stumbling in the dark.

_ Achilles. _

The name came to me naturally, without thought. I held it in my mind, clutched it close to my heart with both hands, a drowning man holding on to a log in a storm.  _ Achilles, _ I called again as I ran.  _ Achilles, Achilles- _

“Patroclus.”

My eyes fluttered open. The light of a candle trembled at the edges of my vision, bronzing Achilles’ sharp profile. He shifted where he lay beside me, propping himself up on his elbow. His hand, when it touched my brow, was cool and soft like peony petals. “Patroclus,” he said again, leaning over me. The tips of his golden hair brushed my shoulder. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” I croaked, my tongue thick and sluggish in my mouth. The sound of his voice, the sight of him hovering over me pushed the lingering fog of my nightmare away. I blinked, pushing it further still, somewhere I could not reach it and it could not touch me. I focused on Achilles, on the way the trembling light cast shadows on his features. The warmth of his presence calmed my rapidly beating heart, eased my breaths to a slow, even rhythm. 

Achilles’ fingers gently brushed my cheek, like feathers. “Bad dream?” he whispered.

I nodded slowly. My eyes, I realised, were brimming with tears.

“It’s alright.” He moved closer to me. He smelt of almonds and earth, of fresh soil after summer rain, of the oils he used on his feet. He knew about the nightmares that plagued me, of the boy I had killed. Of his ghost, that followed. “You’re safe. He can’t reach you here.”

“He did,” I replied quietly. Tears streamed slowly down the corners of my eyes, pooled in the hollows of my ears. 

“You are ill. You have a fever. That’s all it was; a fever dream.” Achilles lay his head down on the pillow beside me, watching me. Slowly, with effort, I rolled to my side to face him. 

“It wasn’t real, then?” My voice was barely a whisper, carried by the warm air that lingered between us. His eyes shone like stars in the night. I latched onto their brilliance, like a ship to its anchor.

Achilles shook his head. “It isn’t real.” His expression was one of certainty, of quiet determination. “You’re safe. I’m here.” 

I let out a sigh as relief surged through me. His fingers threaded through mine on the pillow, and I squeezed them gently. “Will you lie awake with me?” I breathed. “Just for a little while?”

A small smile curled the edges of Achilles’ lips. He leaned forward, pressing his nose to mine. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, his breath carrying the sweet scent of figs and honey. “I’ll watch over you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! I always love talking about the boys :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3


	8. Everlasting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my (very, _very_ late) entry for Day 8: Fluff. It must be among the most sugary sweet things I've ever written, but you know what? I have no regrets. I love those boys, and they deserve all the fluff and kisses that I can possibly give them. It takes place after their first night together in the cave. I know that technically they left for Phthia very shortly after that, but let's just pretend they stayed long enough to see autumn on Mount Pelion, shall we?
> 
> Also: Do you love flowers and their meanings?! I LOVE FLOWERS AND THEIR MEANINGS. I hope you enjoy! :)

The mountain wind whipped through the maple trees, making the leaves whisper. It was cold as it rushed past me, carrying with it the clean scent of winter. It was a bright day, the sun hanging high up above us, but the shadows still stretched towards me with icy claws. I gathered my buckskin pelt closer around me as I held back a shiver. I didn't much mind the cold. The pelts Chiron had taught us to make were thick enough to keep me warm, even as Achilles and I walked through the olive grove on the northern side of the mountain, where the chill wind blew the strongest. 

As much as I liked the summer on Mount Pelion, I liked autumn best. The world was a little more quiet then, a little more withdrawn. The leaves on the trees turned to deep golds, reds, browns, rich and vibrant; when they swayed with the breeze, it was as if the entire forest was on fire. 

I hopped over an upturned rock, and the soil, still damp from last night’s rain, retreated gently beneath my feet. I kept my eyes downward, peeled for the nettles and chamomile blossoms that Chiron had sent us to fetch for a poultice. More often than not, though, my gaze would stray away, towards this flower or the next, the movement of the tall grasses that framed the narrow path. More often than not, I would simply watch him.

Achilles was just a little way away. HIs pelt was draped over his shoulders, flowing down his back, leaving his legs bare. I could see the lean, strong muscles there, rising and falling under his skin. He hadn’t worn his sandals, so the soles of his feet flashed pink and sweetly brown as he walked ahead of me. There was an effortless grace to his movements, a precision, that seemed to belong to creatures of the wild. Fleet footed as a doe when he ran; when he stood motionless, his stillness was absolute, save for his breathing and his pulse. When we went hunting and he crouched beside me, holding his breath, not a muscle would move- only his eyes, his pupils enlarged like a cat’s, following his target.

There was no stillness to him now. He agilely stepped over rocks and roots, wove through the trees; the pouch that hung by his hip was overfull with herbs. A few strands had come free from their leather binding at the nape of his neck, brushing the sides of his face as he bent forward to pluck a chamomile blossom. His golden hair caught the sun that slithered through the pockets in the trees’ foliage when he straightened.

That was when he noticed me watching. It was as if he could feel my gaze on his skin. His lips, when he turned to look at me, widened in a smile. 

I still wasn’t used to him looking at me like this, so fondly, so openly. I wasn’t used to my heart skipping in my chest as if it were drunk, or the warmth that readily crept up my neck whenever his eyes met mine. I smiled back, rather foolishly, and raised my hand to wave at him. He grinned at that, and my cheeks felt hotter still. I looked away, resuming my task. If I gazed any longer, my thoughts would inevitably go back to where they usually tended to drift these days; his slender fingers, when he’d threaded them through mine that morning. His breath on my skin, when he’d leaned close to whisper a sleepy ‘good morning’ in my ear. The softness of his lips when they closed over mine, only moments after I’d opened my eyes. 

Sometimes, none of it seemed real. That night, when he’d drawn me to him, kissed me, held me; it was hazy and indistinct like a distant memory, at the same time that it was sharp and precise, like shards of broken glass. A fleeting dream, one of those that slip the mind upon waking. Yet, at that moment, as Achilles smiled at me, as his delicate feet carried him towards me, it was neither a dream or a memory. It was my present. My reality. 

He stood before me, inspecting the herbs in my hand. “What have you got there?” he asked.

“Chamomile. Nettle. Feverfew.” I pulled a slender stem from the bunch, the petals of its tiny white flowers heavy with dew as I held it before him. “ _Myriophyllon_.” 

Achilles plucked it carefully from my fingers, twirling it in his own as he studied it. “What does it do?”

“It helps stem the bleeding, when someone is wounded. Wards off infection. The wounds heal faster with it.” I echoed Chiron’s teachings as I brought one of its blossoms under my nose. Its smell was sweet and heady, strong for such a small plant. It was plain, not particularly pretty. Unremarkable, one of those that bloom in open forests or by the side of the road, those that no one glances at twice. Surprisingly tenacious. Ever since I’d learned of its properties, I had come to admire it. 

I took a deep breath, letting the smell of the flower fill my lungs.

“Does it do anything else?”

“Yes.” I looked up at him, then swiftly glanced away. His presence made my blood feel warm, unusually buoyant. “Some people,” I murmured, “think it to be a symbol of everlasting love.”

Fair, perfectly arched eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”

I nodded, my pulse quickening under the intensity of his gaze. “Chiron told me that it takes time for it to bloom,” I explained quietly, “yet when it does, it grows roots strong enough to withstand the coldest winter. The orchid, the iris, the narcissus; they’re beautiful to behold, but the first signs of frost are enough to make them wilt. The _myriophyllon_ , it endures. Like true love.” Before I could rightly say what I was doing, I reached up and carefully tucked a blossom behind Achilles’ ear. The tiny flowers, which had appeared so plain and ordinary to me only a moment before, looked bright and elegant amidst his golden strands, as if partaking in the light that seemed to naturally radiate from him. “True love,” I whispered, my fingers tracing the shell of his perfectly shaped ear as I pushed a silken lock of hair behind it, “can endure any hardship.”

Achilles tilted his head to the side, leaning into my touch. My skin prickled when his arm snaked around my waist, pulling me close. His lips were smooth and petal soft, only slightly chapped from the cold when they met my own. I closed my eyes, losing myself into our kiss, committing every detail forever in my mind. The bow of his upper lip. The gentle curve of his bottom lip, the dip in its middle. His tongue, pink and glistening, still sweet from the dried figs he’d had for breakfast. The warmth of his breath. The softness of his skin. 

_Gods_ , I prayed silently, clinging to him. _Let this moment never end. Let it be like this, always, as long as he’ll let me._

Achilles drew back slightly, gazing at me from under heavy lids. His cheeks were flushed, just as his lips were. He ran his tongue over them, and I shivered despite myself- I wanted to lick that tongue. I wanted to taste it again, and again. I would never, could never get enough of it. Enough of him.

“Everlasting love?” he asked, tracing my bottom lip with his thumb. “Is that why you gave it to me?”

I swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yes,” I admitted in a whisper. “That’s why I gave it to you.” 

I wasn’t sure what I expected right then. Perhaps a rebuke, a scornful laugh. I held my breath as I waited for the moment when he would draw away from me, repulsed by my openness, my obvious desire. I waited, but that moment never came. 

Without a word, Achilles reached down into my pouch, picking a myriophyllon blossom. Then, carefully, with surgeon-like precision, he set it amidst my unruly curls. 

“If I have a flower like this, then you should have one, too,” he told me, as serious as ever.

I laughed in surprise before I could stop myself. Achilles with flowers in his hair was as graceful as he was captivating, fearsome in his beauty; Boreas, the god of winter and the cold northern winds, would look upon him and grow envious of spring. I probably looked utterly ridiculous. I wondered at how little that bothered me right then.

“Everlasting,” he repeated, as if to himself. “I like that.”

“You do?”

He smiled, then leaned forward to press his nose against mine. From that close, I could see the flecks of golden sunlight in the jade green of his eyes. “I never want to be apart from you,” he whispered. “No matter what comes. No matter where we are, or what the gods plan for you and me-” He sighed softly, his breath warm as it touched my lips. “What we have is everlasting.”

His words flowed through me, curled over me like waves lapping against a sandy shore. It was warm and hypnotising, gliding through every vein like a flood of brilliant sunlight. I linked my arms behind his neck, pulled him close to me. Closer. So close, I could feel his heart through his chest, beating next to my own. In sync. As one.

“You and me,” I breathed, trembling as I kissed, and kissed, and kissed him. “Everlasting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FLOWER FACT TIME!!!
> 
>  _Myriophyllon_ , a.k.a. _Achillea millefolium_ , a.k.a. common yarrow, is a herbaceous flowering perennial, and is found in temperate regions of the Northern Hemisphere. It has been used since antiquity for its many medicinal properties, which include (among others): treatment of fever, common cold, hay fever, as well as the slowing of bleeding. It was so commonly used in battlefields to treat soldiers' wounds, that it was called 'soldier's woundwort' and 'warrior plant'.
> 
> Now this is where things get really interesting: This plant is very tightly linked to Achilles, hence its scientific name, Achillea! In the Iliad, it is mentioned that Achilles carried with him yarrow plants to the battlefield in order to treat his soldiers' wounds, something that had been taught to him by Chiron. I actually found the passage in the Iliad where Patroclus tends to Eurypylus' arrow wound using the plant that Achilles had given him. In both the ancient greek text and the English translations I found, the plant is referred to only as 'bitter root' ( _ρίζα πικρή_ ), but its healing properties seem to match those of the yarrow plant, so perhaps historians and botanists at some point agreed that this is the plant that was used, lol!
> 
> What is more, in some versions of Achilles' legend, Thetis is said to have dipped him in bath water where she'd added yarrow flowers to give him his infamous invulnerability (save for his heel).  
> *Note 1: I couldn't find any evidence for this and it was the first time I've heard of it, so take this theory with a grain of salt. The version of the myth that I know of is the one where Thetis dipped Achilles in the River Styx when he was a baby, but held him so tightly by the heel that his skin was impenetrable everywhere save for there. The River Styx was said to separate the living world from the underworld, and it was where gods swore all their oaths.  
> **Note 2: In one of her interviews, Madeline Miller mentioned that she doesn't subscribe to the idea of Achilles' invulnerability and his 'Achilles Heel', and Achilles isn't invincible in this manner in TSOA. I personally agree with her version of Achilles, but I thought these were fun facts nonetheless. 
> 
> Also!! I just thought it was really, really cool that this common little plan NOT ONLY has medicinal properties (something which Patroclus would be very interested in!), NOT ONLY is it named after Achilles, BUT IT ALSO SYMBOLISES LASTING LOVE (because of its hardiness). LIKE WOW. I love this flower so much. Now it will be my flower for them in any AU I happen to be writing them, lol. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one-shot, as well as my ramblings!! Patrochilles Week 2020 was such a fun event, and I loved every minute I spent writing these prompts. Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos and, of course, commenting! Your kind words, encouragement and insights have absolutely made my day on more than one occasion. I just love hearing from you! 
> 
> If you've enjoyed this fic, you could give my on-going Patrochilles fic [High-Flying Birds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25151149/chapters/60943276) a read. It's a collection of one-shots exploring and expanding upon Patroclus' and Achilles' relationship, following the timeline of the book.
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi if you fancy!


End file.
